Electric Taped You
by Screaming Mimi
Summary: ANYONE REMEMBER THIS ONE? I'm back, after almost a year, with a weird little ficlet one shot introspective about Mark from RENT. Please R&R, especially those who are still here and remember me. Thanks bundles.
1. Electric Taped You

Electric Taped You  


  
Scan, close in on a young man. He stood on the street corner, fingering the edge of the grey threadbare sweatshirt that hung off his skinny frame, making him look like the skeleton he was. He wasn't wearing shoes, either. The cold sidewalks of New York stung his feet as he walked. A brisk October wind swept through the streets, chilling him to the bone. He shivered slightly. The sweatshirt did very little to keep him warm but he wore it anyway. That's the kind of person he is.   
The city. The city looked like a movie even without Mark's assistance. No one needed Mark's assistance. He was a useless pawn. Roger... Roger need Mark. Screen partners. Together, playing off eachother like the moon plays off the sun. Light and dark. Mark was the night. Have ccovered in the shadows he stood, always. Spotlight only catching half of his pale face, the light reflecting off his glasses and back into oblivion.  
There was nowhere to go. Nobody to see, no one who Mark wanted contact with. Maureen... Maureen tormented him beyond her worldly comprehension. The one person he opened up to, he let himself love, let himself be free. She cast him away as if he were nothing. That's what he was after all, nothing.   
He didn't know why he went out. So his mind would clear and he could stop thinking altogther? Perhaps. To get away from what his life was meant to be? Maybe. To avoid the slip, fall, breakdown? Defintly.  
Focus on Mark's only choice. Apartment, cold. Cold and dark. Watch Mark be illuminated. The door creaked when he opened it. Normally, he would have made some idle comment to himself about getting it fixed. It didn't matter much now. No one came by anymore.   
Mark said, giving up on any sort of pretense or calling notion. He heard a mumble come from the other room. He pulled his sweatshirt up over his head, knocking his glasses askew. Vision blurred. View the empty room. View the full room. View the room full of the two empty boys. View the room empty without the full boys. He adjusted them as necessary and minced his way to where Roger was.   
Close up. Mark's friend. Mark's only friend. Mark's only anchor, Mark's only hope, Mark's only life. A skinny blonde with fading heroin tracks. Watch his face as he plays, watch his concentration. Watch his ignorance. Watch Mark try.  
  
Mark sat on the floor.  
Where were you?   
  
Roger plucked out a dismal tune on his guitar. Girls always did love the boys in bands. You're getting more sullen then me you know that? Mark smiled weakly. He avoided this place for reasons like this. Pull back. Mark's skeleton shrinks. He could already feel the ground shift beneath him. He took hold of a nearby chairleg. You okay Mark? Roger stopped strumming, watching Mark pale. Darkness, fading in on darkness, zoom in on my empty life, empty... empty empty. Mark put two hands on the chairleg. Pan left, close on... Mark. Mark's failure. Mark's uselessness. Focus on Roger... Roger's witnessing. Roger's panicking. Mark's panicking. Mark's over. It's over Mark... over, over, over.  
Roger threw the guitar down on the bed and ran next to his companion. He watched his pupils dilate in size as he stared at a dark spot on the carpet.   
Mark said thinly, surrealy. Montage. Montage of scenes, montage of black, of nothing. Montage of Roger, wasted Roger. Montage of Maureen...een...een. No one wants to see a montage of Mark, shot through those coke bottle glasses. Mark could create, Mark could visualize. Visualize Mark, imagine that. He could feel a distant shape of Roger hunch over him and pry his cold hands from the chair.   
Close in on Roger's guitar. Watch it play itself, away from such hands.   
Mark, calm down. There's nothing here. Here? Everything's here. All the memories, all the losses, all the gains. Surronded every day by reminders of them. There's where they... Mark lifted his hand and gestured vaguely to a corner. And remember when Collins... he swiftly moved his hand to the otherside, almost knocking Roger in the face. And that's when... oh that was funny. Mark laughed bitterly in spite of himself. Okay Mark, you're beginning to scare me. Confusion. This had happened before, Roger had been there before. And then the world pieced together again. He watched as the walls flew in from all angles, forming the room he had previously been sitting in. He watched the light grow and grow until it bathed the room in that milky color.   
Hold on Mark.  
I'm fine. Mark said, in that same ethreal voice. He wasn't concious of what he was saying anymore. It spilled out of his lips as he mind slipped puzzle pieces back together. Close up on Roger. Mark notices things. Mark notices Roger's worried eyes. Mark's imagination plays quietly in his subconcious.  
Are you sure? You seemed pretty edgy back there.  
Mark's pupils shrunk in the needed light. Focus on Mark's hands. Mark's empty, empty hands. Empty... no, full. He walked back to the kitchen and filled his loneliness with the camera. Mark wasn't really there. It was that witty camera man, you know him, the happy one. He listened to the whirr of the machine and felt it vibrate in his hands.   
Close on Roger. Smile. He zoomed in on Roger. He saw Roger, not a person, not a friend, just Roger. The grainy color seemed better suited to his eyes. Roger ignored his comment and gave him a sideways glance as he picked up his guitar. Zoom in on the guitar. It shimmers in the white light. The same lines repeat in his head. You okay Mark... okay... mark.. you... mark... okay... mark... you. Mark. Okay.  
A faint smile played on Mark's lips. Cheerful Mark, he could keep it together. He was attached. He filmed the empty corners of the rooms where people once stood. Maureen could laugh all she wanted. He was away now, he didn't have to deal with them and go back to be Mark. Mark Cohen. The prodigal failure. The black whole. Zoom in on Mark's nose dive.  
  
_A/N: yes I wrote this without the aid of drugs. I wrote this on sleep deprivation and the continued rewriting it. Over and over. I told you all I was taking a break from humor. Now excuse me, my brain is going to go repeat words to itself._


	2. RCA Cable Life

A cruel smile played upon those lips. Those lips that had spoke   
so many words and yet said so little. The light shimmered off the   
glasses, obscuring the view into those pools of brown.   
What're you doing? The blonde asked curiously. He watched   
from afar, not entirely sure how much into this he wanted to get.   
He wasn't even sure what was happening.  
Oh you know.. playing around. Playing around, playing around   
as a mastermind plays with his pawns. The rooks, the queens.   
Each one has a role. Sacrifices must be made.  
With what?  
My camera. He could splice and dice, he could create entire   
alternate universes, conversations, people that had never been   
there. That girl in the background, all fuzzy and faded out? Watch   
her become the new star.  
Why do that?  
Because I can. He split a strip in half and placed it somewhere else. He had a imagination. He had nothing else. Imagination.  
The blonde pressed his sweaty hands on a table, they left reflections of themselves. Besides that.  
I don't want to tell you. He was feeling mean today. He was feeling powerful. Absolutly. The blonde had just been deleted. Gone, vanished and left but a ghost. A millisecond. A subliminal message.  
Why not?  
Because I don't have to.   
Why won't you tell me? I'm not gonna be creeped out. Heh. Fat chance. The blonde's heart already pounded. Never had he been frightened of his companion.   
It's not that important. He sneered slightly. He didn't want to share his joy. Watch me, he thought. Watch me, for once in your lives, watch me. You've watched my failures, now you can watch my downfall.  
Then why won't you tell me? The blonde watched him take a match and burn a section of film. It twisted and contorted itself. The blonde could almost feel the heat prickle against his skin.  
He watched it with pleasure as it flailed desperatly against it's fate. Done with. Another person cut out of existance. Shut down. He chuckled to himself.   
What're you laughing about?  
Nothing. Nothing at all.  
Why are you being evasive? The blonde had nothing certain to say. He spoke in questions where the answers were provided for him. He didn't need an opinion.  
Because I can. He dropped the flaming film into the trashcan. It extinguished itself and he went back to his work. His skull ached. The little still people tormented him endlessly, yet he loved them. Loved them still.  
Can I watch it when you're done?  
You won't be there. I'll have deleted you, he thought to himself. Gone forever, burned into a twisted plastic.  
You gonna show it everyone else?   
He sliced frame out, adding another one in. Christmas and New Year's combined. Another ghost.  
Will you talk to me?  
  
Why not?  
Because I can. He suddenly froze, mid scissor cut. Why was he cutting out other people? It was himself that deserved to be gone. The film maker. He took the film and dumped into the trash, throwing a match in as well. Gone. The film maker gone. Who needed him. The blonde and the film maker could rest together intertwined in ashes forever more.  
The flames illuminated the film maker's face, bathing his white skin in an orange light. They burned his eyes. He watched his life go up in smoke. The smell of plastic burned his lungs, he smiled again.  
The blonde watched him with a detached fascination. Part of him cared, most of him cared. He worried. He worried very much so. He wanted his companion. The companions lips twisted into a smile that reflected in the angry licks of flame.  
Because I can't. 


	3. Input Soul

The white screen spreads across the wall. There is no white screen. A figment, a wishful thought of a would be filmmmaker. Instead, a picture spreads across the wall. A guitar. The strings play themselves. There is no one playing them.  
There is no room, there is no picture, there is no guitar. There is just barely a film maker. He stands still as if trying to make himself disappear as well. The guitarist, sans guitar, sits nearby as well. There is nothing.   
The film maker gestures towards a wall. The guitarist lifts his heavy head. Some figure casts a shadow upon the wall.  
  
Just look. The film maker stares in amusement at the shadow. He could never be a film maker. Look what I've done. The guitarist watches his film maker. Watches how his glasses are fogged and how he stares so contently at nothing.  
There's nothing there.  
The film maker shifts his gaze downward. The guitarist watches his crestfallen friend. There is nothing to do but watch. The film maker turns to the guitarist. He doesn't watch him. He films him. He is a film maker after all. His camera has shattered into pieces, left to lay upon the bedroom floor. There is no camera. The gadgetry belonging to the camera is spread around. Just like the film maker.   
There is nothing. Only this. There is no this. Just the film maker, the guitarist, and a shadow cast upon the wall. All else has fallen, broken, shattered apart.  
Look what I've done. The film maker repeats and looks pointedly at the wall. He wants to create something. A shadow. All that belongs to him.   
The guitarist shakes his head. There is nothing there. The guitarist stares at the empty space. Just a shadow there.  
There is nothing there.  
Yes there is. Look. Look at the shadow.   
That's nothing, Mark. Nothing. The film maker turns to the guitarist. How could he leave him alone in a world so cold? He opens his mouth to protest, but nothing comes out. Nothing ever came out. Just strings of meanlingless words put together like a macaroni necklace. They're there so people don't forget his existence. Glue the macaroni on a paper. String it on a string.   
Struck, the film maker stands and traces the shadow with a finger. His finger leaves no mark. Just like the film maker. He films this scene with his camera that isn't there. But it's all there. It's just the film maker that's missing some key components.   
Stop, Mark. There's nothing there. The film maker continues, ignoring his companion's request. This is something, he's created something out of nothing. Nothing out of something. Nothing out of nothing.   
What I've done... He repeats to himself until the words have fallen apart, they have become to sound foreign on his tongue. Taking a step back, he admires his work. The guitarist watches. Forever watching.   
The film maker exclaims one last time, thrusting his finger towards his life's work. Nothing. He collapses to his knees, laughing to himself. The lens of the camera had been flung out the window and lay shattered on the pavement. Like the film maker.   
The guitarist's eyes open wide. There was, is, never will be anything there. His companion has too left him alone. The guitarist slips down next to the film maker. He takes his hand, a guiding hand and points it to the wall.   
There's nothing there. You hear me? NOTHING. He speaks this into his ear, tattooing it upon his brain. Shatter, the sound of shattering glass. The film maker's face freezes. An image, an era fades away. He turns to the guitarist and watches his eyes.  
Then I've done something.


	4. Auxiliary Me

The film maker is alone. Alone at last, at least. He stares into a single lightbulb. The light burns his eyes but he doesn't blink. Everytime you blink you miss a little part of life.  
Silence. The film maker doesn't answer. He is alone. The white washed walls stare upon him in utter contempt. A superfluous point of life. He imagines them bathed in the orange glow of fire, the grey shadow of ash. The darkness of shadow. Anything that isn't there.  
The voice says again. The film maker flinches slightly, ashamed at himself. He is alone. He is hearing things. The light flickers, the film maker does not blink.   
Are you there? The voice asks again. Too much, all too much. On the brink of tears that would never come, the film maker turned his head towards the source of the voice. Nothing, just as he thought. The voice, the musician watches this. Watches his sole, soul companion stare past him and into the wall. He too shrinks against the wall. The room expands, more empty space.  
The film maker lets the light burn away his tears. The film maker wishes everything would burn away. His skin prickles as he begins to sweat prematurely. Lonely, alone. He wants his companion back.   
The musician has regained control of his senses and lost everything else. The film maker can contain it no longer, the tears leave hot trails down his sweaty face.  
Stop it... He mumbles, the light becoming strangely painful. Stop it, stop, stop, stop, stop now. Alone, leave me alone. Stop it. He rocks back and forth and slips his hands over his ears. He is alone after all. There is no one there but himself. The rest is a figment created by his cruel, cruel mind. Mutiny.  
The film maker grips his hair, rips it out, nails digging into skin. The blood runs along with the tears on endless tracks.   
Mark it's me. Me, Mark, me.  
WHY WON'T YOU STOP?! Mark, that was it. He was Mark. Identity found, alone no longer. He had himself. Himself and the voices. He turned to face the creation, his creation. His own personal Frankenstein.   
The musician could feel the blood drain from him as his forever mate stared at him with those cold eyes. He reached out to touch him, a reassurance of his existence. For both of them.  
The film maker watches the world turn grainy, old from generation after generation, copying the same old thing. He wants this illusion. He wants it so it hurts. As the musician touches his shoulder the film maker leaps to the musician. Real, real, reel life. How long has it been?   
Astounded, the film maker, Mark stumbles backwards. He liked the light bulb. It was there as a piece of comfort, it didn't move or hurt anyone. It stayed there, providing light as it should. The musician is left alone again. These two boys so alone together.  
The musician said again. He didn't like this alone. It wasn't suited to his character, more to Mark's.  
No. No, no. Beyond comprehension. Beyond his wildest dreams, the film maker was alone and that was his lot. Barren wasteland of a man in a white room with a bare lightbulb that never died. Leave me alone. Barren wasteland of a man with a mind who played it's sadistic games. Go away.  
The single syllable word was as good as it got. As far the reaches of his mind could go. The musician had watched his friend slide backwards, slip and fall. He never imagined him gone.  
Me. Mark. Alone. His head cleared, his independant thought giving up. Fact is fact, Fiction, fiction. Never mix the two. Again the musician went to touch him. The film maker didn't move. Let the calloused, blisted fingers touch his bare arm. It was nothing anyway, a creation. He smiled cruelly and stepped foward to the musician. Body heat, hearts pulsing in time. Perhaps this was the way it was meant to be.  
The lightbulb flickered and burnt out.


	5. Extension Mind

It's just like that. A magic trick. Pull the rabbit out of the hat and poof there it is. Maybe it's up your sleeve, you'll never know. I'll never know. I never know. Never ever. I know what I see I can then replay. Always, constantly, back and forever. Just like that. I can watch it over and over until I think I know. But I never know. I guess, create, and hope. I hope with all the might my little body can handle. They just think I'm laconic. Brother thinks I'm scary. What does Brother know, Brother knows nothing but drugs and useless guitar chords. I know everything. And I can see it whenever I want. It's all mine, to clasp to my chest and feel the shiny film between my fingers. I hate the grease that gets on the film. I hate it. I hate. I hope and I hate. I'm so backwards. Brother is forward, straight forward, facing forward, dead straight ahead. Dead. A head. I'm nowhere, I'm not sure. Backwards maybe? Sideways, upside down. Never forward. Never. I'm never. Never ever ever. Best Friends for never ever. It's just like that. Who would of thought? Who would of thought that 25 years of life, 25 of struggle would culminate to this point. Sitting on the floor, a dirty maroon color, and staring into the black endless lens of nothing. At first I think, maybe I just hope that i can see something move. But it doesn't. It just stares back at me with that hard unblinking eye. Judging me. I have this urge to smash it. Nothing judges me, nothing challenges me. Ever. I hold it above my head but something stops me. Brother, I think. Brother thinks I'm mad. But no, it's the camera. It tells me where would I be without it? I'm it's only friend. I'd be no better than brother. I bring it back to eye level and stare into it. It reveals nothing. It will stay for now. Brother would be sad anyway. He likes to be on camera. I hate it. I hate being on camera, I hate the film, I hate the little people who move and laugh as I film them. I hate my failures pasted on the wall. I don't hate Brother. Brother hates me, but I don't hate him. He'll be the subject of my film. Just him, standing there. Forever. For never. Never more. 


	6. Adapter Heart

All he wanted to know was why the rain fell like it did. Why did it bounce off those leaf petals, falling across the pink roses, magnifying their imperfections? Things should be beautiful. Nature should not disrupt them. He was too at danger of this destructive force. He was under the microscope like eye of mother nature. The beads of water fell across his face, enlarging his skin, splattering across his glasses. He blinked twice and his eyelashes gripped his skin, a moment longer than he had planned on. If you add blinks together over your life, how much time do you miss? An hour, a year, a lifetime? Can you lose yourself in between those moments behind closed eyes? He no longer wanted to blink ever again. He kept his camera over his face, over his eyes. With that unblinking, all seeing eye, he would never miss a thing. He would see all of his life, under the harsh lighting of the sun, under the softening appearance of the clouds, under the cover of a newly fallen crest of snow. His eyes stung with their resistance to blink. He had missed so much already. He had missed so much of his life, so much of other people's lives, so much in other people's lives. Behind those closed eyes, how much could be erased? How much can you miss in the collected time of the necessary blinks? Could the memory of the filmmaker vanish? The raindrop filmmaker, there only for a moment, before splattering before your eyes on the pavement. In moments, you forget its, his, entire existence. Gone in the blink of an eye. The rose petals bent under the weight of the collected water. He imagined the taste of that sweet rose water, the sweet water that would collect around his dry tongue, pink and sweet from the beauty it left behind. The camera remained steady on the rose. It was his whole world. The filmmaker knew nothing other than that rose, this park, this raindrop resting on the petals. He wanted nothing more to believe in the never ending power, the never ending presence of these raindrops in the world. These raindrops, little by little, they had the power to extinguish the fire behind the filmmakers eyes. Behind the glass that protected them from spreading and burning the world, forcing the others to take notice, to keep their blinks for a later date because the filmmaker was present. The filmmaker prayed for rain. He did not want to be awake in a world that had a person like him. He did not want this fire, this spark for others in a world where no one else had it. He did not want to live in a world that could forget him. Forget a human being, forget a raindrop. Forget a rose in a park, filmed by a filmmaker who was losing his life behind his eyes. The little red light of the camera burned on. They would not forget him. The power of this tape, this unblinking film would teach the others, and they would remember him. His fire would scorch the memories of those he knew, and he would never be forgotten. He prayed for the rain to put the fire out. -la fin-  
  
A/N: LORDY BE. Anyone on here remember me and this never ending quest of stories? Well it's summer again, and here I am again with more bizarre RENT writing. I'm a bit rusty. Please R&R, I do greatly appreciate it. And, favorite lines? Thank you so much. Much Love 


End file.
